


The Saints Can't Help Me Now

by FiliTheLionKing (IAmYourWatson)



Series: The God of Poetry and the God of Death [3]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: And finds it again, Anders is his own god, But that's not important right now, Catholic Character, He's a strong independent Anders who don't need no organized religion, Loss of Faith, M/M, Mitchell loses his faith, Roman Catholicism, Someone stop me now, This is about Mitchell, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmYourWatson/pseuds/FiliTheLionKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how John Mitchell, former vampire, loses and regains his faith. How a simple boy from Ireland loses his Catholicism in the midst of World War I, disavows his faith throughout most of his vampiric years, and how he regains it bit-by-bit after meeting a certain Norse god's vessel. </p><p>At the same time, it's the story of Anders and his lack of faith in everything except himself and his Irish lover. He was never very religious, for many different reasons, and sometimes he clashes with Mitchell over ideas of faith. Still, he'll support whatever his lover believes...but don't expect him to attend Mass anytime soon.</p><p>Each chapter features a different Catholic saint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. St. Jude

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, my lords and ladies! First of all, I am NOT a Catholic, or even a Christian, so any misrepresentation of the faith or errors are totally unintentional. So if there's something wrong, let me know, and I'll address it! That said, I tried not to make it preachy or irreverent in any way, since I'm very much NOT into intolerance. As always, comments and critiques are welcome!

If religion had seemed like a tricky subject with Mitchell before, now that he was a god, it was downright problematic. Technically, he was still just plain old John Mitchell, human being and lover of Anders Johnson. But when it came down to it, he was so much more than that, so many conflicting things that it seemed like he’d never find his way out of the tangled web that was his life. He was well over 100 years old, even though he didn’t look it at all, he used to crave human blood like a druggie craves his next hit, and he’d kill more people that most humans would ever meet. He was also the mortal vessel of a Celtic god, a god that his Catholic upbringing had told him didn’t exist, and that it would be a sin to recognize as a false idol. The brunet had all the powers of said god, just to a lesser extent, too. All in all, Mitchell was and never would be a simple man like he once wished to be. 

 

Faith is always a difficult subject to discuss, especially in the Johnson/Mitchell household. Anders himself had been raised in a mostly agnostic family, and as a kid celebrated Christmas and Easter, but only the commercial versions, and he’d never attended church for a day in his life. It was only later, when he was 21, that he found out that his family was technically pagan, no, not technically, they  _were_  the pagans! Being a god was wonderful, it let Anders finally make his own way in the world without anyone’s help, especially not his family’s. It gave him freedom, it gave him power, it gave him hope when his life had been utter torture beforehand. So if anyone ever asked what god Anders worshipped, he answered ‘No one. I don’t need a god.’ And that was because he already was one, and he needed no one but himself for a very long time.

Mitchell wished he could take Anders’ carefree attitude towards faith, but the blonde had been raised in a different time from the brunet, where faith was disposable and religion was passé. The world was either too cynical for ages-old religions or too attached to their faith to be tolerant of anyone else’s. Still, Mitchell was a Christian at heart, even if he wasn’t quite a Catholic anymore (because he couldn’t really be part of a church that told him that this love he shared with Anders was a mortal sin, now could he?). That didn’t mean that he didn’t stick to some Catholic rituals, and one of them was the worship of saints. 

When he was younger, before he became a vampire, and just before the war started, Mitchell was particularly devoted to St. Amand, patron saint of barkeepers. With his dream of opening up a pub, St. Amand was the perfect saint for Mitchell to attach himself to, and he venerated the missionary almost daily, praying that he’d get his own business and that he would be successful, not for himself, but for his family and friends. Mitchell had never been particularly selfish, having grown up in a large and loving household, and what might seem like a selfish wish was really very selfless. He could have been anything he wanted to be, but he had simple dreams and simple needs. Had he been born in a different time, his faith and devotion may have earned him what he most desired.

But then the war came, and everything changed.

Little boys lined up like toy soldiers, easily broken, easily destroyed, and marched off to battle in far-off lands, with little toy guns and little toy helmets, and they’d be shipped back home in tiny bits, or not at all. Even if they returned home alive, they were not the same little boys that had left their homes. Sometimes pieces of the toy soldiers were missing, an arm or a leg or an eyes; sometimes the missing pieces weren’t visible, like a missing spleen, or worse, a missing mind; and sometimes, the little boys simply changed into someone completely unrecognizable.

_Johnny’s gone for a soldier_

So when the war started, Mitchell began to pray to another saint: St. Jude, patron saint of lost and hopeless causes. He’d always been such a cheerful little boy, John Mitchell, but after the war began, the light began to die in his eyes, and his smiles became hollow, hollow like the eyes of the men returning from the front that he was going to replace. Even before he saw the death and destruction that the trenches of France wreaked on bright-eyed young boys like himself, he was afraid. He feared that he’d never make it home alive, never to see his mother again, or his father, or his brothers and sisters, his friends and neighbors. He feared he’d never see his girl again, never see his farm, the city, his backyard, his room, all of his things. So he did what every good Irish Catholic did: he prayed. 

St. Jude would help him, he thought. He would intervene on Mitchell’s behalf, he would pray for him, he would help him survive the war. Most of his fellow soldiers were like him, scared and begging to live, to go home again, even though most just  _knew_  that they’d never see the green fields of Ireland ever again. Whatever saint they evoked, nothing worked, and one by one, they fell. Still, Mitchell prayed to his saint, carrying an icon his mother had bought for him, having scraped together enough money to get one that had supposedly been blessed by the pope himself, sent all the way from Rome itself. The pendant sat on a chain along with his dog tags, and he’d regularly be seen holding it, praying softly as his lips moved in time with the cannon fire and the screams of the dying men. And somehow, in the trenches, he survived. 

Most men found their deaths in the trenches, killed by mustard gas or gunshot wounds or infection and disease. Mitchell found his in the form of a vampire’s bite. And in those last moments, as he sacrificed himself for his men, he prayed desperately to St. Jude, begging for help, for an escape, for anything that would save him from damnation. He prayed that his sacrifice would be enough to bypass his eternal ticket to hell once he was turned. He prayed that he’d see his mother and father again, and not be the abomination he knew he was about to become. He prayed and prayed and prayed and died. 

_God’s a bit of a bastard._

For many years after his last fervent prayer, Mitchell discarded all hope in ever being saved. The icon burned him, and he almost threw it away, but at the last moment, thought differently, and instead kept it in a thick wooden box, carting it with him whenever he moved. Soon, the box accumulated things from his long, long life, little souvenirs or memorials of conquests or little trinkets that caught his eye: a bit of silk from Marlene Dietrich’s pocket square, a box of matches from the  _Casablanca_ set, earrings from a particularly lovely girl he met in 1960’s New York, a broken piece of a Stones record signed by Mick Jagger himself, buttons from a jacket he particularly liked, sunglasses from Italy, a lipstick kiss on a calling card from a woman who would later go on to be Nicole Kidman, a picture of his mother (a story he never goes into). And still, inside this wooden box, rattling around his suitcase whenever he picked up and left, was the little icon of St. Jude. 

The first time he touched it again after being turned was when he met Anders. He’d gone home after sleeping in Anders’ hotel room, and he was shaking all over, not from withdrawal or the cold, but from excitement. He felt something with this blonde man, this stranger from a far-off land, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He pulled out his wooden box, dropping a cufflink he’d nicked from Anders’ bedside table into it, wanting to have something to remember Anders by when things inevitably went south. The brass cufflink bounced off of his little St. Jude icon, and the vampire paused. Carefully, wary of the burning sensation in his fingertips as he touched it, he picked up the little icon, cupping it in his palm. Dark eyes stared down at the artifact, this small reminder of his past, of his former faith. And for the first time in decades, he prayed, even though the physical pain grew with every word that left his mouth. He prayed for the impossible miracle of being allowed to keep Anders. Gasping, he dropped the icon back into the wooden box and closed it, his prayer complete. Standing, he walked into the bathroom and took a cold shower to ease the burning he felt in his very bones. 

He never expected his prayer to be answered. He was allowed to keep Anders, and what’s more, he was allowed to spend the rest of his life with the blonde god, a mortal life. Although he knew that it was Donn who had, in fact, granted him a mortal life, he couldn’t help but get the feeling that it was St. Jude who nudged him in the right direction, and that it was that very same saint that tasked the fates with weaving Anders permanently into Mitchell’s life. After all, it was too great a coincidence to have not been guided by holy power. And even though he’d asked Donn once about it, the celtic god had just smiled mysteriously and disappeared off to wherever he disappeared to when he wasn’t inside of Mitchell’s mind. After all, if pagan gods existed, then surely the saints must as well?

And this is how John Mitchell regained his faith. 


	2. St. Marciana of Mauretania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders was never a religious man, even before he found out that he was the vessel for a Norse god. He believes in nothing and no one but himself for the longest time, and only Mitchell is the exception to the rule, as the blonde can't help but believe in him too. But through the years he's with his vampire, he starts to think that maybe Fate isn't so bad as she seems, religious ties or no, and maybe he can start to accept her.
> 
> Until things go wrong for him again. He thought he was through with having things taken away from him, from all the good in his life being temporary, but he was wrong. Will Fate be overruled?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, my lovelies! As always, read the warnings, and comments and critiques are always welcomed and loved! Happy almost Valentine's Day!

Anders had never been very religious. Well, there are a lot of people who would say he was lying, because they thought he was very devout; devout to the church of Anders Johnson, that is. So what if he was a selfish bastard? Everyone had their armor, and this was his. It’s not like life gave him much of a choice in that department, much like it hadn’t given him a choice in much else. He didn’t decide to be a sickly child, a weakling, he didn’t decide he wanted to be good with words, he didn’t decide that Valerie would be attracted to him and flirt with him and try to coerce Anders into bed and he just couldn’t get her to stop and…

The point is, Anders isn’t very religious, because he likes the idea of making up his own destiny. He knew it was an exercise in futility: he was a Norse god, so obviously there was a good chance that all the gods of the world existed, and as such, predestination was likely the order of the day. Fate was a bitch, and so were her sisters, and they seemed to take a major disliking to Anders. Everything he has, he earned, with blood, sweat, and tears, because it sure wasn’t being given to him.

 

Mike had a choice: he could choose not to use Ullr to get ahead in life, but Anders had to use Bragi more often than not just to get out of trouble and stay afloat, especially in those early days. Ty was the one who knew best what it was like to be burdened with a difficult god, but even then, Ty was well-liked and got along easily with people, and he was a good man at heart, unlike Anders. So while Ty could somewhat commiserate in having a shitty life, their mother had always liked him best, and Mike was father’s favorite, and Axl had been way too young to have a side anyways. It was always Anders who was the odd man out, even in his own family. He’d had no choice in the matter: his parents had chosen for him, and so had Fate. 

So when he met Mitchell during that fateful trip up to Bristol, he thought, just for a moment, that maybe this whole predestination thing wasn’t too bad a deal. If Fate is what brought the lovely Irish vampire to him, then Fate couldn’t be a total bitch, right? But when he woke up in the morning to an empty bed, he frowned and thought that maybe he’d given her too much credit too soon. But where he’d lost a cufflink, he’d gained a phone number, and he cracked a new grin as he got up to head to the office of his client. He had three weeks with this man; he was going to use them well. And at the end of three weeks, he’d come back to New Zealand with more than just a few trinkets as souvenirs for Dawn and Ty; he’d come back with a lanky Irishman in tow, sunglasses over his eyes and an eager smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

Once again, Anders pondered the fickle moods of Fate about six months after Mitchell had moved into his flat. His lover had gone back to Bristol to visit his friends and their baby, and he was supposed to have been back by now. His last text before supposedly boarding had been “ran into some trouble. will b delayed maybe. xo”. Anders had insisted on driving out to meet him at the airport, even though his flight wasn’t getting in until 11pm. It was now 3am, and Anders was worried. The last flight in from England was set to land in 20 minutes, and if Mitchell wasn’t on it, Anders was going to storm into Mike’s house and wake him up and get him to find Mitchell, he’d even beg if he had to. He couldn’t lose the one good thing in his life that he didn’t have to fight for, that didn’t come with strings attached, that made him smile every single day, even when they fought. 

3:20am came and went. The airport staff that remained gave him pitying looks, thinking that he’d been stood up by a girlfriend or something worse. One had even kindly offered him some tea, because all he’d done since he got there was pace for the first hour, then just sit dazedly in a chair as he worried and worried for his lover. Then, an announcement came out over the loudspeaker, announcing that the last flight from England had arrived after a long delay. A whirlwind of grumpy passengers flooded out from the gate, and among them was a dark-haired man that was intimately familiar to Anders.

He didn’t care about dignity; he ran right into Mitchell’s waiting arms, holding him close as he tried to calm down. He knew that Mitchell was a grown man, a vampire, and could take care of himself, but that last text had scared him. Mitchell had told him about Herrick, how he was still on the loose, and Anders had worried, naturally. He felt the tell-tale bumps of bandages beneath his boyfriend’s coat and shirt, and he ached to ask him what happened, but he couldn’t for fear of exposing their secrets to the airport staff. They were pushing it as it was, because Mitchell couldn’t be seen on the security cameras, so they left in a hurry, Anders smiling at the ladies as they cooed over him and his boyfriend. Mitchell didn’t even have the strength in him to smile, and that was enough to make Anders worry even more; Mitchell was far more polite than Anders would ever be, and to not make the effort meant that he was beyond tired.

They made it home in record time, Anders breaking several traffic laws and praying that his Bragi powers could get them out of trouble if it came down to that. He tore into his parking lot and parked haphazardly, just trying to get his lover inside as quickly as possible as the sun began to lighten the sky in the approaching dawn. Luckily for Mitchell, the sun itself wasn’t up yet, so it didn’t bother him. They got inside, luggage divided between the two of them, and it was only then that Anders let himself calm down enough to actually examine his lover. Mitchell was covered in bruises, scratches, scars, and bloody bandages under his clothes, and the blonde made the vampire take a shower immediately, getting in with him to make sure none of the wounds were getting infected. Anders was kind of squeamish as a kid, but living with a man who drinks blood to survive had made him a lot stronger in that department. 

"…Did Herrick do this to you, babe? Or was it a werewolf?" Anders had been told about the legendary animosity between werewolves and vampires, as well as Mitchell’s sordid past with Herrick. The vampire didn’t answer immediately, instead just leaning against his shorter lover, letting the blonde wash his hair.

"…Herrick. Cornered me on the way to th’ airport. He had a new gang, some of th’ old ones too…tried t’get me t’come back." Mitchell’s head lolled to the side as Anders quietly washed the shampoo from his hair. "…I said no, obviously. He didn’ like t’at…" Anders cooed softly, stroked Mitchell’s cheek in an uncharacteristically (to everyone else, Mitchell knew better) tender gesture. 

"So what did he do?" Anders was already thinking of the repercussions of Mitchell saying no. Maybe they’d have to go on the run for a while, to keep from exposing Anders’ family and Mitchell’s friends from danger. Or…or had Mitchell said yes? But no, that couldn’t be it, because he wouldn’t be here, hurt and tired, if he’d agreed. So he kept silent and let Mitchell finish.

"They tried t’beat me up. They succeeded…a little bit. Y’should see them…" Mitchell laughed, but it was a harsh, rough sound more like a grunt of pain. Now that he was clean again, the cuts weren’t looking so bad, and they were already healing, but Anders knew Mitchell would need blood to heal more. "S’all right, love. ‘M not badly hurt, just sore. Bloodloss was a bitch, though…" 

Anders was quiet still as he simply held Mitchell close under the hot water, glad that he’d gotten an apartment with a good water heater. When he was a kid, he’d never gotten the hot water; it had always been used up by his parents and Mike at first, then Ty and Axl and their parents when Mike had left. It was probably one of the reasons why he was so sickly as a kid. Mitchell’s voice brought him out of his thoughts, and he would have berated himself for being so selfish if he wasn’t already so used to his self-centered tendencies. 

"It was a long fight. It’s a good t’ing George was there, sorta, b’cause he kept some of them occupied fer me. But Herrick came after me himself." Mitchell’s eyes turned black and his voice grew hard, a hidden strength welling up in his words. "I killed him, Anders. I guess we got lucky, or he was being stupid, because he cornered us at a construction site. Funny thing about construction sites: they tend to have broken bits of wood around them. Some of his lackeys had realized that and had tried to use them on me, but he got cocky and told them that I was his kill. So I stabbed the bastard when he got too close. Watched him turn to dust right in front of me, smilin’ the whole time. His boys ran off right quick after that; they were younglings, too green and too full of themselves to realize that I coulda’ killed them easily if their leader died." His voice trailed off, and he grew quieter again as his anger slowly tapered off. 

"George wasn’t too badly hurt, jus’ a few scratches here and there, nothin’ t’worry about, so I sent him home t’Nina and th’ baby. Went t’ th’ airport m’self." Mitchell’s accent grew thicker as he let his guard down, consonants dropping and vowels becoming heavier. "I got there late, had t’get another flight, was too busy tryin’ t’keep from lookin’ suspicious t’think of tellin’ ya. ‘M sorry about t’at…"

"It’s all right. You’re here now, and that’s all that matters." Anders kissed Mitchell softly, the moment hidden behind layers of steam and shower curtains and the pre-dawn glow. "I’m glad you’re home safe. And that…that he’s dead. I probably shouldn’t wish death on anyone, but I’ve never been conventional, now have I?" He grinned half-heartedly, and it was Mitchell’s turn to kiss the worry off of Anders’ face. The vampire nibbled down the god’s neck, moaning as he felt the warmth of the mortal’s skin, the feel of blood rushing beneath that thin layer of protection, so easily broken.

Anders tilted his head back, his neck bared like an offering; it would take a stronger man than Mitchell to refuse such a bounty, and he found that, for once, he didn’t care about the struggle to stay human. He bit down, gently, carefully, being as tender with his lover as he could, in reward for his bravery and kindness. Anders gasped at the hint of pain, but it soon turned to pleasure as Mitchell feasted, his wounds already beginning to heal faster because of the fresh blood. Only a few minutes later, Mitchell was as sated as he was going to get without hurting Anders more than he wanted to, and so he let go, sealing up the wound with a few licks. Anders stumbled a bit, but was otherwise okay when they left the warm shower, steam billowing out behind them as they made their way into the bedroom, still damp after toweling off. 

Luckily for them, it was a weekend, and so neither of them had any obligations to the outside world until Monday, and they both fell into bed in a tangle of limbs. The sun rose to the sound of Mitchell’s soft moans, to Anders’ louder pleas for attention, for more. Pale skin and wild, dark hair melded with tanned flesh and golden curls. As Mitchell eased inside of his lover, Anders threw his head back, his neck bared again, and Mitchell couldn’t help but to lean forwards and worship it with teeth and tongue. He never drew blood, but he was sure to leave claiming marks behind, his primal need to own and possess taking over. Anders loved it when he did that, and his joy translated into his writhing and mewling. The soft silence of the pre-dawn was broken by the slick, steady sounds of lovemaking as Mitchell captured Anders’ plump lips in a deep, searing kiss. The heat of their passion was like a cauterizing iron on the wounds Mitchell had endured, mentally and physically, and they sealed shut the tears in Anders’ heart from his worry over his lover. 

The sun rose and blushed as its rays fed through the slits in the blinds, covering the lovers in a pinkish warmth. Sweat shimmered like the waves on the sea, the rolling of bodies mimicking waves on a breezy day. Anders’ tight heat surrounded Mitchell’s length and gripped it tightly, milking a long, overloading orgasm out of the vampire, the god following soon after as cool fingers wrapped around his hard length and stroked it just right. Their bodies remained entwined as the sun rose fully, the sky turning a sapphire blue as the rain clouds from the previous day had washed all the dirt out of the air, leaving a clean slate for the sky gods to paint a radiant hue. It wasn’t until well past noon that they left the bed, several more slow rounds of lovemaking under their belts as they’d relearned each others’ bodies, reaffirming their lover was still alive and whole and there for them. 

That was the last time Anders contemplated the unfairness of Fate for the next two years. Fate, it seemed, liked to lull you into a false sense of security, and then, when life seemed good again, she struck.

 

* * *

 

The next, and most recent time he’d cursed Fate like the  _motherfucking bitch_  that she was, was when he held a dying Mitchell in his arms. A wooden stake was through his lover’s heard, a mangled corpse nearby, the wallets that it had managed to take lying in a pool of blood. He cried, he screamed, he howled, he sobbed, his watched the ash in his hands fly away in the cruel wind. Why? Why him? Why did Fate have to be so terrible to him, what had he ever done to deserve this? Fate had taken away the one good thing in his life, the one bright light in a stormy sea of predestined cruelty and disdain and ignorance. There was a reason he’d built up his walls, he remembered bitterly in those moments. There was a reason he’d refused to believe he had a heart for so long.

He’d forgotten how easily it could be broken. 

And now yet another choice had been taken away from him, the choice to live the rest of his life with Mitchell, and the choice to, one day, maybe convince the man to turn the blonde as well, or to find some way to rescue the vampire from his date with Hell. Anders finally thought he was through with Fate’s darker side, that he’d been given his reward for so many long years of bleakness and ridicule. He was wrong, so wrong, as Fate took away yet another thing from him that he cherished most. He’d been destined to meet Mitchell, and was destined to have his vampire taken away from him. There was no other reason he could think of why Mitchell would just run off like that, foolishly, when it was only their wallets, just some money, nothing worth fucking dying over. 

Anders cried and cried and cried during those minutes after his lover died, his ashes scattered to the four winds. He hadn’t cried this much since he was a baby; in the Johnson household, you learned to hold back your tears quickly, especially if your name was Anders. He didn’t care that Dawn and Ty were there to witness him breaking down; he was beyond caring about the rest of the world. For once, Anders was going to be selfish and he wasn’t going to give one flying damn about what the rest of the world would think, about how he was going to hide himself behind his mask of cocky arrogance this time. No, he was through with hiding from the truth; he was going to mourn, and Fate could kiss his ass. 

"Hello, love." 

Fate, it seemed, had decided to change her mind. 

 

* * *

 

Anders Johnson isn’t a very religious man. He doesn’t like to believe in Fate or predestination or a lack of choice in his destiny. He still thinks Fate is a bitch, and he refuses to acknowledge her in any way, except to curse her name loudly and with great prejudice while his brothers shake their heads in fond frustration. He doesn’t pray to any gods, except for one: Donn, Celtic Lord of the Dead. Some people wonder why he’d pray to a god outside his own pantheon, why he’d thank this dark ruler of the dearly departed, and every idea they’d have would be wrong. He didn’t revere Donn because he was a true believer; far from it, he still hated all ideas of religion and destiny. But every day, before he fell asleep, he whispered a thanks to the dark god for saving his lover, for looking Fate in the eye and telling her “Fuck you, he’s mine.” For giving Anders back the one thing that made him truly happy: a dark-haired, bright-eyed Irishman named John Mitchell. Fate could try all she might, but Anders Johnson had Mitchell in his arms again, and he’d be damned if he let him go again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> St. Marciana of Mauretania is invoked to cure wounds. 
> 
> I thought it rather fitting for this one, don't you think? Information from Wikipedia and the internet.

**Author's Note:**

> St. Amand is the patron saint of bartenders, barkeepers, boy scouts, brewers, inkeepers, merchants, vine growers, and vintners
> 
> St. Jude is the patron saint of police officers, hospital workers, and lost or impossible causes
> 
>  
> 
> (All information sourced from the internet and wikipedia)


End file.
